Gone are the days.....
Gone are the days when chilly winter mornings would start with a huge mug of coffee and a white enamel plate laden with assorted cookies. This was at home. Mum would pull off the blankets to wake me up at 10am, or even after it, ands present the morning snack. I would ungratefully accept the offering, and then go back to snoozing regardless of the hour.
Now my winter mornings begin with a growling stomach, when I have pad into the kitchen and potter around for the milk and prepare my own breakfast. As I open the fridge, a frigid blast of cold air hits me in the face and repels me visibly. I dive in, pull out the almost-frozen packet of milk (Amul double skimmed milk, Rs 10 for half a litre). Pour the white liquid into the new gleaming saucepan and put it over the stove to heat. While the milk boils, I bring down my favourite bowl (it’s oval-shaped and half of it is coloured a bright orange, the other half is snow white). I heap two spoons of Bournvita into it and not-very-generously tip my huge box of Kellogg’s honey-covered cornflakes into it. Then I pour the steaming milk and enjoy my morning snack, all made by me, along with my morning paper that I pick up myself from the balcony. No maid or mum or papa to retrieve the newspaper either from outside the house in the cold.
Winter hols were spent as a couch potato, in the comfort of the settee in the hall, in front of the television, wrapped up in my favourite pink comforter. I would start with Captain Planet at 11am. The young kids out to save the world along with the ubiquitous Captain Planet (I quite had a crush on him, along with Wheeler, the American boy, who in turn had a crush on the Russian chick! Phew!). The Superman-esque Captain would zoom around the world, answering the call of the five powerful kids to save Planet Earth from terrible disasters. I would be hooked.
Now I have no winter hols. And the only way I can zoom around the world is by coming pretty early to office (I am a self-confessed loser, I have no life!), and googling the news of the world.
Then there would be Scooby Doo and his adventures. Fred, Daphne, Wilhelmina, Shaggy and the lazy mutt, Scooby, perennially munching on his Scooby Snacks doled out by his gang. Scooby crunching on apples, Scooby trembling in fear at a funny-looking ghost making comical noises, Scooby trying to balance himself on a circus wire like an acrobat. I was hooked again. Laughing and giggling.
Now the only balancing act I can look forward to is that between my personal and professional life. With no boyfriend in the city that I inhabit, my weekends are date-less. So I end up working on weekdays as well as Saturdays and Sundays. No point in killing time at home. I like to be productive, or so I think. Maybe coming to work and reading The Guardian, Times, Football 365, Soccernet and other such sites can somehow drift towards the ‘being-productive’ zone.
Then there would be a half-an-hour slot for The Little Lulu Show. Which I hated with all my life. So that time would be spent in sunning myself in the balcony and garden outside. I’d lounge in the cane ‘jhoola’, which had been especially installed for my use, with a book in my hand, looking around from time to time at the birds flying and the sun shining.
Now the only time I can feel is the sun is when I step outside willingly, which does not happen often. Most of the time I am cooped up in the office at my workstation, typing away at the keyboard, making pages, staring blankly at the computer screen.
Mum would bring me carrot juice (“It will purify your blood and give you healthy skin”) and almonds (“Never not eat these nuts, they are very beneficial”) and oranges (like who doesn’t enjoy eating the orange fruit?). She would peel carrots and I would chomp at them ala Bugs Bunny, making the chack-chack noise that would so annoy Mum. I would help to shell the fresh, green peas pods for lunch, sometimes popping a fat juicy pea into my mouth.
Now there are no vegetables to munch on. I eat unhealthy junk. Cheeseburgers, potato wafers, peas floating in an orange sea of oil, chapattis that literally crunch when you bite into them, ‘naans’ that harden and taste like rubber when you chew on them. Sometimes I’ll drink carrot juice from the juice shop near my flat. But most of the time I am too lazy to step out there (“I am busy,” is the evergreen excuse that I give my harassed mother).
Then I would put on my shoes and shorts for a game of football with the colony kids. We would scream, shout, wave madly, the winter breeze whipping our hair around and making our cheeks glow like pink apples. We would high-five and even chest-bump (that was then, ahem!)
Now, I don’t remember when was the last time I played football. Oh yeah, when I went back home in September. The ball lay in a corner in my room, like always, and I picked it up on an impulse and kicked it here and there a bit. Nobody to play with, not even dad, who is busy most of the time. All the kids have grown up now, someone’s working with Accenture, someone’s a musician, someone’s at IIT doing their M-Tech, and someone is working with Hindustan Times. Cool lives all of us have.
Evening would then call me in, Tom and Jerry beckoning with their numerous shenanigans. The cat-mouse piano waltz, the Broadway musical, Tom’s guillotine execution, Jerry’s muscular uncle – everything was classic but unreal, stuff I remember even today. Dexter’s Lab, the lovable geek begging the naughty Dee Dee (with never-ending legs topped by a tiny pink frock) not to press the button. Ka-boom! And Dexter would be lying in ruins, his laboratory annihilated. But their house would surprisingly remain standing, with the Mom walking around on her toes like a practised ballet dancer and chastising the kids for being late for dinner. The Hindi versions were even more hilarious – a tad corny but enjoyable nonetheless.
Now? Where are Tom and Jerry, Scooby, Captain Planet, Powerpuff Girls, Johnny Bravo, Dexter and the entire gamut of cartoon characters? In the recesses of my memory, sometimes peeping out when I have a fraction of time to engage with my childhood again. The curtains stay drawn until then.
Now my winter mornings begin with a growling stomach, when I have pad into the kitchen and potter around for the milk and prepare my own breakfast. As I open the fridge, a frigid blast of cold air hits me in the face and repels me visibly. I dive in, pull out the almost-frozen packet of milk (Amul double skimmed milk, Rs 10 for half a litre). Pour the white liquid into the new gleaming saucepan and put it over the stove to heat. While the milk boils, I bring down my favourite bowl (it’s oval-shaped and half of it is coloured a bright orange, the other half is snow white). I heap two spoons of Bournvita into it and not-very-generously tip my huge box of Kellogg’s honey-covered cornflakes into it. Then I pour the steaming milk and enjoy my morning snack, all made by me, along with my morning paper that I pick up myself from the balcony. No maid or mum or papa to retrieve the newspaper either from outside the house in the cold.
Winter hols were spent as a couch potato, in the comfort of the settee in the hall, in front of the television, wrapped up in my favourite pink comforter. I would start with Captain Planet at 11am. The young kids out to save the world along with the ubiquitous Captain Planet (I quite had a crush on him, along with Wheeler, the American boy, who in turn had a crush on the Russian chick! Phew!). The Superman-esque Captain would zoom around the world, answering the call of the five powerful kids to save Planet Earth from terrible disasters. I would be hooked.
Now I have no winter hols. And the only way I can zoom around the world is by coming pretty early to office (I am a self-confessed loser, I have no life!), and googling the news of the world.
Then there would be Scooby Doo and his adventures. Fred, Daphne, Wilhelmina, Shaggy and the lazy mutt, Scooby, perennially munching on his Scooby Snacks doled out by his gang. Scooby crunching on apples, Scooby trembling in fear at a funny-looking ghost making comical noises, Scooby trying to balance himself on a circus wire like an acrobat. I was hooked again. Laughing and giggling.
Now the only balancing act I can look forward to is that between my personal and professional life. With no boyfriend in the city that I inhabit, my weekends are date-less. So I end up working on weekdays as well as Saturdays and Sundays. No point in killing time at home. I like to be productive, or so I think. Maybe coming to work and reading The Guardian, Times, Football 365, Soccernet and other such sites can somehow drift towards the ‘being-productive’ zone.
Then there would be a half-an-hour slot for The Little Lulu Show. Which I hated with all my life. So that time would be spent in sunning myself in the balcony and garden outside. I’d lounge in the cane ‘jhoola’, which had been especially installed for my use, with a book in my hand, looking around from time to time at the birds flying and the sun shining.
Now the only time I can feel is the sun is when I step outside willingly, which does not happen often. Most of the time I am cooped up in the office at my workstation, typing away at the keyboard, making pages, staring blankly at the computer screen.
Mum would bring me carrot juice (“It will purify your blood and give you healthy skin”) and almonds (“Never not eat these nuts, they are very beneficial”) and oranges (like who doesn’t enjoy eating the orange fruit?). She would peel carrots and I would chomp at them ala Bugs Bunny, making the chack-chack noise that would so annoy Mum. I would help to shell the fresh, green peas pods for lunch, sometimes popping a fat juicy pea into my mouth.
Now there are no vegetables to munch on. I eat unhealthy junk. Cheeseburgers, potato wafers, peas floating in an orange sea of oil, chapattis that literally crunch when you bite into them, ‘naans’ that harden and taste like rubber when you chew on them. Sometimes I’ll drink carrot juice from the juice shop near my flat. But most of the time I am too lazy to step out there (“I am busy,” is the evergreen excuse that I give my harassed mother).
Then I would put on my shoes and shorts for a game of football with the colony kids. We would scream, shout, wave madly, the winter breeze whipping our hair around and making our cheeks glow like pink apples. We would high-five and even chest-bump (that was then, ahem!)
Now, I don’t remember when was the last time I played football. Oh yeah, when I went back home in September. The ball lay in a corner in my room, like always, and I picked it up on an impulse and kicked it here and there a bit. Nobody to play with, not even dad, who is busy most of the time. All the kids have grown up now, someone’s working with Accenture, someone’s a musician, someone’s at IIT doing their M-Tech, and someone is working with Hindustan Times. Cool lives all of us have.
Evening would then call me in, Tom and Jerry beckoning with their numerous shenanigans. The cat-mouse piano waltz, the Broadway musical, Tom’s guillotine execution, Jerry’s muscular uncle – everything was classic but unreal, stuff I remember even today. Dexter’s Lab, the lovable geek begging the naughty Dee Dee (with never-ending legs topped by a tiny pink frock) not to press the button. Ka-boom! And Dexter would be lying in ruins, his laboratory annihilated. But their house would surprisingly remain standing, with the Mom walking around on her toes like a practised ballet dancer and chastising the kids for being late for dinner. The Hindi versions were even more hilarious – a tad corny but enjoyable nonetheless.
Now? Where are Tom and Jerry, Scooby, Captain Planet, Powerpuff Girls, Johnny Bravo, Dexter and the entire gamut of cartoon characters? In the recesses of my memory, sometimes peeping out when I have a fraction of time to engage with my childhood again. The curtains stay drawn until then.
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